


The Other Side

by ArixaBell



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Vanilla Sex (yes it is a kink in this case), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArixaBell/pseuds/ArixaBell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and France fear they may be losing the spark in their relationship. Then they overhear their neighbors in the hotel room next door... fighting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading my fanfiction.net stories here.  
> Originally published 3/2/11
> 
> Originally filled for [this](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10960.html?thread=19730896#t19730896) kink meme request.

It was a long and boring meeting. Nations yelled at each other, _other_ nations yelled at _those_ nations to shut up, Germany yelled at _everybody_ to shut up. Everyone scoffed at America's stupid ideas, groaned at France's ideas, didn't notice Canada's ideas, fell asleep from Germany's ideas, remained asleep during the rest of the presentations...

In other words, it was a pretty typical meeting.

England, face resting in his hand, was only dimly aware of the announcement that ended the meeting. He was snapped out of his daze by the sound of the entire world cheering and rushing for freedom. He lifted his head, eyes meeting another pair across the room. He and France grinned at each other. It was over! Time for some good old quality time in their hotel room!

The pair dashed from their seats, pausing only long enough to work the kinks out of their legs in the mad dash toward the outside world. The mob awaiting taxis was frightening, to say the least, but France had been smart enough to bring a rental. A quick ride to the vast hotel where the nations were staying, a quicker ride on the lift while unconsciously tapping toes to some horrible tune, and then they were there. The lovely suite with the big bed and comfy chairs that awaited them.

With a happy sigh, France settled back onto the bed, snuggling back into the pile of cushions. He grinned, winked toward England, then picked up the nearby newspaper.

England dropped onto one of the plush chairs with a pleased groan, enjoying the change from the hard chair he had been inflicted with all day. He picked up his embroidery and got to work.

It was almost an hour later when they glanced up, eyes meeting again.

"Hey..." England said, needle poised in mid-air. "Do you think our relationship has lost a bit of its... spark?"

France set his newspaper, with its half-finished crossword aside. "Of course not," he scoffed. "Lots of couples simply enjoy spending time together."

England blinked. "Wha...?"

"Did _I_ just say that?" France asked, paling a little. " _Mon dieu._ I think we may have lost some spark."

England thought back. Their evenings, nights, and mornings used to be spent in bed. They would attend meetings with heavy limps and claw-marks down their backs, wearing turtlenecks to hide the bites and bruises. Yeah... they might have lost a bit of the spark. "What do we do?"

"There's plenty of things we can do to add a little zing!" France said. "I can do this. I'm France!" He was looking a little hysterical.

England started ticking ideas off on his fingers. "There's role play, threesomes, bondage, food play..."

"We've done all that!" France wailed.

"Will you stop getting so worked up! Just-"

"Shh!" France perked up, ear tilted toward one wall.

"What?"

"Hear that?"

England listened. He heard a door slam, and a pair of voices raised in argument. "It's just a fight. Who's got that room?"

France looked worried. "The boys."

"Really?" England scooted closer. He couldn't remember the last time America and Canada had had a fight _that_ bad. "No, only one of them sounds like the boys."

"America," France said, and England wondered for the millionth time how he kept track of who was whom so easily. "The other is-"

"Stop calling me a _commie_ ," the second voice snapped.

"Russia," France groaned. "Great."

England nodded in miserable agreement. Their night was ruined. More than twenty years after the damn Cold War had ended, and those two still hated each others' guts. Everyone was very careful to make sure their hotel rooms were as far apart as possible, for many mini-wars had started due to those two inhabiting space too close together.

"Once a commie always a commie!" came America's loud voice.

"Disgusting pig. I wish we were human so I could just kill you with no consequences."

"Ha! No consequences! You'd end up in jail, as someone's bitch!"

"I'm no one's bitch. _You're_ the bitch."

"Biiitch!"

England massaged his temples. "Let's find out where Canada ran off to and stay with him."

"I'm about ready to go sleep in the gutter," France said. They both winced at the _bang_ of an object hitting the wall.

"Ha!" said America. "Missed! Just like if we ever did go to war! You'd end up blowing up half of South America!"

"You don't even know where that is."

"Of course I do! It's... to the south..."

"Ignorant _yeblan_."

"What did you call me?"

Another sound of something smashing into the wall. France looked mournfully at some of the lovely trinkets that decorated their room. "I hope that wasn't anything nice..."

"Goddammit, you bastard!" Sound of scuffle, body hitting the floor.

"We are immortal, right?" England picked his embroidery back up.

France nodded. "Pretty sure." He grimaced at the sound of choking from the other side of the wall. "Oh dear." They both yelped and ducked at the violent thud of a body slamming into the wall with a cry of pain. More furniture was thrown, with more violent insults in various languages. Every so often, one of the _thuds_ had the more organic sound of something hitting flesh rather than a wall, with colorful cursing and pained grunts.

"I think we may find out for sure..." England said. They heard the sound of a body hitting the table, chairs flung to the side. A yell, a slap, a groan, a grunt, a moan.

Wait, what?

Another moan, longer than the first.

"What are they doing now?" England whispered.

"Hush," France said.

" _Svinya_ ," Russia said. "Filthy pig." His tone seemed to have changed, though. Just slightly. It was still filled with loathing and contempt, but... huskier.

America gave a cry of... pain? They weren't really sure anymore. "Sick fuck."

"I hate you."

"Fuck off and die."

England's eyes widened, and he gaped at France. The grunts and moans were definitely picking up a familiar rhythm. "It... can't be..."

Then a louder grunt, and sound of a body hitting the floor.

"Oh." France looked a little disappointed. "Maybe not."

Scuffling, objects thrown, then a body hitting the wall so hard they heard cracking. Looking around in surprise, England realized a _hole_ had been punched in the wall that separated them. He and France exchanged a knowing look. They waited until the sounds of struggle moved away from that wall, then scurried over to the new peephole, able to both peep in with one eye. They gasped.

Russia already had America pinned face-first against the far wall, both of them missing their pants. Russia had one hand on America's shoulder, the other was pinning both of the smaller nation's wrists behind him. Russia was using his own feet to keep the other's legs spread, and was viciously thrusting into him at a brutal pace.

England swallowed, hand unconsciously trailing down to the straining bulge that had abruptly appeared in his pants. His wrist was caught and pushed aside, and England didn't even break his gaze from the peephole as he felt France unzip his pants and push them down. Still not wanting to look away from the violent scene in the next room, England reached over, groping blindly along France until he located the zipper, and returned the favor, shoving his pants down (unsurprisingly, France had opted to go commando. Did he even own underwear?) England let out a long sigh when France's hand curled around his erection.

Meanwhile, America managed to shove Russia off of himself. The pair vanished from the limited view the hole provided, and the disappointed voyeurs were left to their imagination at the sound of thuds and crashes and swearing and flesh hitting flesh.

Until America was flung back into the picture, landing face-first on the floor with a grunt. He was completely naked by then, divested of even his glasses, and he was already sporting a black eye and split lip. England wilted a little in France's grip when he wondered if he was getting off to his little brother's rape... But no. America could pick a bus up and fling it across the road. If he didn't want this, it wouldn't be happening. And though they insulted each other, neither had actually said any variation of 'no' or 'stop'...

Russia's laughter drew closer, until he came partly into view, still mostly dressed and brandishing his faucet pipe. England swallowed, quickly returning to full rock hardness at the sight. Was Russia going to beat him? That seemed to be going a bit too far, maybe he should sto-

England's train of thought derailed into the ocean when the end of the pipe was shoved _into_ America. Who groaned and thrashed, but... didn't quite seem to be _not_ liking it... France's hand tightened around England, thumb caressing the tip, and he gave a groan of his own. England reached into France's lap to return the favor. They pumped each other in unison as they watched America being violated.

Then Russia jerked the pipe out and tossed it aside, reaching down to flip America onto his back. He removed the rest of his clothing before practically collapsing atop him, and America welcomed him almost hungrily. Pressed together, they kissed, and it could only be described as a war between mouths, biting and fighting for dominance. England stroked France a little harder, biting back a whine when America wrapped his legs around Russia and Russia _pounded_ into him.

"Fucking... bastard..." America snarled, after one particularly harsh thrust made his head slam into the floor.

" _Pizda_ ," Russia said.

"Sweet mercy," England said, stroking harder, moaning when France did the same.

And then... oh god... America came, and he screamed so fucking loud he probably woke up whoever was on the other side of the hotel. Where Russia was supposed to be.

But Russia was not ready. Oh no. He simply thrust harder, snapping out rapid angry-sounding Russian. And abruptly, Russia was gone, kicked away and across the room by America. England swallowed hard at the display of sheer brute strength. America got to his feet and stalked out of view. They heard the sound of a slap. Another, harder. And another. England's grip tightened and France yelped.

More tantalizing sounds of abuse. Smacks, bodies hitting furniture, furniture hitting bodies. The watching pair strained desperately to see something. Mercifully, Russia came stumbling back into view. His ass was considerably redder than it had been. And America stepped closer, now wearing only— " _Mon dieu!_ "—his black gloves. He grabbed Russia by the hair, both of them snarling heated insults at each other. And America picked Russia up, slamming him against the wall, lifting one leg and shoving into him. Russia threw his head back, into the wall, orgasming with a low cry. England could have sworn he saw a crack in the wall where the nation's head had struck.

Russia pushed America away, reaching for his pipe. They disappeared from view again. England stroked with a frenzied pace, pumping his hips into France's hand. So close...

Good lord, the pair on the other side _weren't done yet_? There were more violent noises and crashes and sounds they couldn't even hazard a guess as to the origin, and then a loud scream as America came _again_ , and they had _missed_ it, but soon England himself was overtaken by orgasm and he cried out. He felt France spasm, felt sticky warmth coat his hand, and France was moaning, too.

And silence fell on the other side of the wall.

England flopped forward, resting against the wall, body still trembling as he fought for breath.

Nobody said anything, on either side. After a while, shuffling of bodies getting dressed, footsteps, the door slammed shut. The bed creaked as the remaining person lay down.

England and France exchanged a look. They finally backed away from the hole in the wall, returning to their own bed. They lay still, hoping for the sound of somebody returning to the room next door. They perked up in excitement when the door opened and shut again, but sagged in disappointment when it wasn't an angry Russian voice that spoke up.

"What the hell did you do to our room _this_ time?" Canada demanded.

Oh well. England soon fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

It was an awkward breakfast in the hotel dining room the next day. America stayed far away from England and avoided eye contact. England was more than happy to follow suit. In the light of day, seeing America be his usual doofy self, it was hard to believe what he had witnessed last night. It was even harder to believe he had gotten off on it. Images of a sweet little baby in a nightgown saying "Come pway wiff me, Engwand!" invaded his brain on more than one occasion.

France and Russia didn't seem anywhere near as awkward. In fact, they seemed to be smirking at each other.

As soon as they finished eating, England quickly left the room, not wanting to run into anybody. But he was brought to a screeching halt by France's voice.

"So what are you doing this evening?"

Russia. He was talking to Russia. Oh dear _lord_ he was talking to Russia.

"I will probably just go back to my room," Russia said, voice calm yet deadly.

"Well I was thinking," France said, sounding much too cheerful. England looked around for a weapon to kill him with. "I'm sure everyone is sick to death of you and America _fighting_ all the time..."

"Indeed?"

"Oh yes. Fifty-some years of not-even-a-real war is _nothing_ to fight about." He nodded toward England, who was trying to borrow some of Canada's disappearing power. "Once you've spent centuries at war with each other, _then_ you'll have something to fight over."

Russia cleared his throat. "Are you saying that you and England are better at _fighting_?"

"France," England groaned.

"Maybe tonight we'll find out," France said, cheerful tone taking on a darker edge.

"Maybe so," Russia said coldly.

"If our fights get out of hand and become an all out war between all of us, well..."

England exchanged a horrified look with America, who was hovering nearby. This was going to be... this was... um... yeah. England swallowed.

At this rate he would never finish his embroidery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Russian:
> 
> Yeblan – Fucker  
> Svinya – Pig  
> Pizda - Cunt


	2. Chapter 2

Another dull evening. That particular night found England with his nose in the volume of English literature he had packed for the trip, and France enjoying a glass of red wine by the window.

The memory of their voyeuristic adventure last night seemed almost like a dream. After the morning's confrontation, they had assumed... well, one should never assume. Russia was nowhere to be found, and America was watching a movie with his brother. The only sound that came from the room next door was his occasional loud laughter. If they scooted closer to the wall separating them, they might also hear the movie itself, or Canada's softer voice. But that wasn't exactly worth spying on.

"So..." England carefully tucked his bookmark into the heavy tome and snapped it closed. "I guess you were wrong."

France wrinkled his nose. "I suppose I misjudged how embarrassed he would be. After last night, I figured... well, you can't blame _moi_ for his puritan upbringing."

"This is awful," England groaned. "We're basing our love life on the love life of another couple."

"Could that even be called a couple?" France set his empty glass aside. "Or a love life?"

"Whatever you call it, we should be able to enjoy ourselves alone!"

"We should." Elbow on the table, France rested his face on his hand. "We definitely should. We don't need _Amérique_ and _Russie_ for our own fun."

"Right!" England said, but made no move from his chair.

They remained in awkward silence for a few moments.

"We could give Russia a call...?" England said. Yes, that would go over well. _Hi, Russia! Say, you know the sweet little boy I raised? Would you come over and molest him some more so I can get off? Thanks so much._ "Or not."

A slow smile spread across France's face. "I know another way to bring them here."

"Open bar?"

"Better." France stood from his chair, shedding clothes—something he was the master of—as he went.

"It involves you being naked?" England said.

"Doesn't everything? Just be patient." France plucked the hotel's plush ivory bathrobe off its rack and slipped it on, tying it around his middle. Then he bent over to dig in his suitcase. He seriously messed up the nice repacking job England had done, tossing things aside until locating what he was looking for: the scarf he had brought in case of case of cold weather, light blue decorated with red roses. "Close enough, yes?" he wrapped it around his neck, and England was suddenly overcome with dread.

"Oh no..."

"Oh yes." France grinned.

"You can't be serious."

"Needs something else..." He plucked another item from his belongings. A box of... aluminum foil?

"Why on earth do you even _have_ -"

"Mistake. I had meant to pack the saran wrap."

"And why did—never mind. I really don't want to know."

With a grin, France disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of foil being tugged out and torn emerged. More foily noises. Then France returned, bearing a stick wrapped in shiny silver.

England rolled his eyes. "What...?"

"Well, it _was_ the stick to the plunger."

"Disgusting."

"Now it's a faucet pipe!"

"That's your pipe..."

"Indeed." France brandished the... pipe. "Come on, you capitalist pig!"

England blinked. France— _France_ , of all people, who did not even like speaking other languages, let alone accents—affected a rather convincing Russian accent. It... well, it went straight to England's crotch. "Um."

England looked around, wondering what to use for his costume. He stripped down to his boxers, which just happened to be red white and blue. Technically they were supposed to represent the French flag, a gift from his lover for a recent holiday, but they would work. Then he located his coat, which may not be leather but at least it was brown. A copious amount of hair gel later and England had a nice little cowlick, and finally, he donned his reading glasses that he almost never wore, even when reading.

"You look great," France said with another smirk. Then he whacked England on the head with his makeshift pipe.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" England rubbed the damaged spot. "Couldn't you have found a cardboard tube or something?"

"So sorry." France tapped the shiny stick against his other palm. "Well, America," he purred, slipping back into his Russian accent. "I hear you've been flirting with the limey and wino next door."

"I have not!" England snapped. A look of surprise flickered across France's face, and even England was a bit surprised by his not too terrible American accent. Oh well. "And even if I was, that's none of your business."

"Ah, but it is." France stepped closer, and England took a step back before he even realized what he was doing. "You belong to me, da?"

"I don't belong to anybody, you commie bastard!"

France slapped him across the face, then grabbed him by the coat to drag them nose-to-nose. "You might want to rethink that."

England shoved France hard in the chest. England did not have America's strength, but France made an exaggerated show of stumbling backward, until he smacked into the wall. He glared at England, growling deep in his throat.

Oh lord was that _hot_...

England practically pounced on France, fisting a hand in his wavy hair and bringing their lips together in a bruising kiss. On impulse, England bit France's tongue, then drew back with a smirk of his own. "Didn't hurt ya too much, did I?" He chuckled. "Wouldn't want to get any of your _red_ blood on me."

"Oh, clever." France jerked England's shorts down (England helped a bit and kicked them away). "Well, look at that. I see Florida's enjoying this."

England snorted and pawed at the belt around France's middle, quickly pulling it loose, then tugged the robe open. "And I see that... uh... that _you're_ enjoying this, too."

"Ha." France shoved England to the floor, lowering himself down on top of him with a predatory grin.

"I say." England temporarily broke character. "You had best not be thinking about shoving that filthy plunger up my ass."

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind."

"It better not have."

"Shut up now," France snarled. "You, um, _khu..ye..sos_."

"Filthy wanker."

"What?"

"I mean... dumbass."

"Ah." And France slicked his cock up using the tube he pretty much always had on him everywhere, even when naked somehow, then hitched one of England's legs up and unceremoniously shoved into him.

England bit back the groan of pleasure that threatened to escape as he was roughly filled, forcing it instead into a furious snarl (France would know he wasn't really hurt. If he was, he just had to say the usual magic word and they would stop. As if that was going to happen...)

"Get your disgusting commie dick out of me!"

"You know you like it, _shliushka_."

Where in the world was France learning these words? "Fuck you!"

"What was that? Because in Soviet Ru-"

"Don't even _think_ about finishing that sentence."

"My apologies." France gave a harder thrust, and England was unable to prevent a groan that time.

"F-fuck..."

France managed a downright _creepy_ grin as he rocked his hips into the body beneath him, bracing himself on a hand near England's head.

But of course America wouldn't just lie back and take it, much as England would have been happy to continue letting France have his way with him. So he forced himself to shove and kick at France until he got the hint and pretended to be pushed backward (after gently pulling out; they were terrible roleplayers, really).

England rolled to his feet, laughing in the face of France's dirty glare. He ducked a clumsy swing of the 'pipe' and scooted away, looking for a weapon of his own. Teapot, phone, candelabra... aha! England yanked a taper candle out and hurled it at France's head. The creep ducked, and the candle smacked into the wall.

"Is that the best you can do?" France said, caressing his pipe. Then he yelped when a second candle took him right between the eyes.

"Ha!" England said. "Stupid asshole. Y'all gotta watch out!" He charged after France, grabbing him by the arm and swinging him face-first into the wall.

England paused a moment to find the lube, quickly slathering himself up and pushing the robe out of the way before plunging into France, who couldn't quite suppress a low moan. He himself shivered and sighed happily as warm tightness enveloped him.

England kept his hands on France's shoulders, pressing him into the wall as he fucked him hard, grunting and panting and occasionally gasping random American insults. France retorted with insults of his own, frequently in what had to be badly garbled Russian.

Finally, England tensed, practically seeing stars as he spilled deep within France, a low cry escaping. "Oh g-god." He paused to catch his breath.

"Th-that's me," France said. "Hurry the hell up, stupid pig. Don't stop just because you're done."

"Chill out, dude." England stepped back with an evil look.

"Damn you." France stalked over to the sink, snatching up a towel which he dampened to clean himself up a bit, including the lube and whatever else was on his rather angry-looking erection. "How about we put that big mouth of yours to work?"

"To hell with that," England snapped. "Want me to bite it off?"

"I don't think you will... not if you know what's good for you."

"Stay the fuck away from me!" England backed away, but France sprang after him, shoving him to his knees. England struggled, turning his face away from France's cock. "I swear to god, I'll bite your stupid commie dick right off y'all's body!"

"Oh for goodness sake!" a nearby voice snapped. "I do not talk like that!"

England froze, as did France. They slowly turned their wide-eyed faces toward the wall, toward the peep hole that still had not been covered up.

"Shut up, you idiot!" a second voice snapped. It was most definitely not Canada.

"Oh, bloody hell..." England sank his face into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Russian:
> 
> Khuyesos – Cocksucker  
> Shliushka – Little slut


	3. Chapter 3

England wondered if he should call Guinness. This, without a doubt, had to go down in history as the most awkward get-together _ever_

With a little help from the overpriced wet bar, France poured a glass each of wine, vodka, rum, and whiskey. He set the drinks down for everyone, and settled down on the edge of the bed beside England. And he, unlike England, hadn't bothered with redressing; he had simply tied his robe closed. And apparently the humiliation had done nothing for his... condition... seeing as how he kept crossing and recrossing his legs, shifting around awkwardly.

England had pulled his clothes back on, but to his dismay, the damn gelled cowlick remained. Absolutely nothing he did seemed to fix it. And oh god, what if it was like that in the morning, and everyone would see it?

Sitting in the chairs across from them, America was managing to look both amused and embarrassed. And Russia looked... well, Russia looked like he always did.

"So," America said, picking up his drink. "This is nice. Like an Allies reunion! Only without China. But I think he's busy any-"

"America, shut up!" England said, glaring.

"Ah... where is your brother?" France asked in his most conversational tone.

America shrugged. "As soon as we heard you guys and realized what you were doing, he got the hell outta there."

"And you called Russia over," England guessed. "Thanks."

Russia chuckled to himself, and England felt a chill up his spine when he realized the larger nation was looking right at him. "What?"

"Why did you not tell me?"

England scowled. "Tell you _what_?"

"That you desire to be abused by me."

England sputtered and choked on his drink. France patted him sharply on the back; how nice of him. "I do not!" he managed once he could speak.

"Actions speak louder than words."

England waved his hands around. "That was just role play! Don't you know what role play is?"

Russia nodded. "It is acting out kinky scenes you would like to have happen."

"N-nooo, no it isn't! It's... it's acting out kinky scenes you _wouldn't_ want to have happen, which is why you're acting them out and not _actually_ doing them!"

"That's weird," America said.

France patted England on the back again, more gently. "I'm sure they don't even need to roleplay. Their sex is messed up and kinky enough as it is."

"True," England muttered. "Very true. They make an interesting couple."

Now it was America's turn to sputter, and Russia's eyes widened. "We are not a couple," Russia said, and America firmly nodded his agreement.

France smirked. "What are you, then?"

"Enemies," America said, and this time Russia nodded. "Enemies who fight a lot, and it sometimes leads to hate-filled sex. Why? What do you call what you guys have?"

England gave France a sidelong glance. Ah, that used to be them, back in the day... Good times.

"Variety is the spice of life," France said. "You should try something different for a change. Maybe you _should_ roleplay."

"Roleplay what?" Russia said. "You two?"

England shuddered at the mental image that conjured up. He wasn't sure which was worse: America as France, or Russia as France. "No. Not us."

"A normal couple," France said.

"We're not a couple!"

France ignored them. "Having normal sex."

"That sounds boring!"

"Come on, let me see you kiss each other." France settled back, waiting patiently.

"You are joking," Russia said, as America laughed.

France just shook his head. "If we can pretend to be a psycho couple like you, you can pretend to be happy and mushy."

"We're not a couple!"

"Whatever." France waved away their protests. "Are you trying to tell me you can't do it? I assumed the two of you could do anything..."

"Just because we can doesn't mean we should. Or want to," America said, arms crossed.

"If you can manage to make sweet, tender love, we'll... uh..."

"Oh, a bet, is it?" Russia smirked. "You will bribe us to roleplay for your fantasies?"

America rubbed his chin with a calculating look. "What will you give us?"

England shared a look with France, not really sure. What could they possibly have to offer that those two would want?

"A night with England," France offered generously.

"Okay!" America said.

" _Nyet._ " Russia scowled. "I do not want that."

France ignored the death lasers England really wished were shooting out of his eyes. "Very well then. How about if I cook for you for a week?"

"Okay!" America said.

" _Nyet._ We can eat French cooking at countless restaurants."

France sighed. "Well tell us what you want."

The pair eyed France, then retreated to a corner of the room to confer. Their whispered negotiations were undecipherable for the most part, aside from the occasional 'no'. At one point they clearly heard Russia's exclamation of "Enough with food already! You can buy your own food!" and a little later, America's "My brother is not a prize!"

Several moments later, they returned to their chairs. Judging by their satisfied expressions, they had reached an agreement. England tried not to shudder.

"I see you have come to an accord." France leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin resting on folded hands.

"Yeah, sure," America said. "We want you to keep roleplaying us."

England frowned. What the hell? "You like us having sex as you two, huh?"

"I didn't mean sex! And I meant all day tomorrow. Including at the meeting."

France chuckled. "You want us to pretend to be you two in public, hmm?"

"Right!"

England crossed his arms "Absolutely no-"

"You have a deal!" France grinned.

"What?" England glared at him through narrowed eyes. "If they both have to agree to a deal, then we both have to agree. Our humiliation is not worth-"

"I'll make it up to you later." France winked. "All right, boys! Time to uphold your end of the deal!" He rubbed his hands together, looking like a delighted villain. "Kiss. And make it good."

The pair eyed each other, uneasy. Finally, Russia gripped America by the shoulders, slamming him into the back of the chair he sat in. Then he leaned in for a kiss that made France and England both wince. England could have sworn he saw a bit of blood trickle from their mouths.

"That was... a good start," France said. "It definitely needs a lot of work."

Russia pulled back to glare at France.

"You're the one who agreed to a nice round of tender lovemaking! You have to play by my rules. If we are, as _Angleterre_ said, going to _humiliate_ ourselves in public, we want you to put some effort into it."

All three of them were giving France looks. England was wondering just why they had decided to do this to the poor not-couple.

"Try again," France said. "Put your arms around each other, and bring your mouths together gently."

Russia gave America another uneasy glance before slowly, carefully, hesitantly placing his hands on the other nation's hips. Just as reluctant, America rested his hands on Russia's shoulders. They both leaned forward, ever so slowly, lips almost comically puckered. Abruptly, they both turned their faces away, as if they had been playing a game of chicken.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you two?" England snapped. "Just kiss! Christ!"

America winced. "Right. A hero can handle anything."

"This will go a lot smoother if you don't talk," Russia said pleasantly. The looks on their faces as they eyed each other was reminiscent of a child preparing to take some nasty medicine. America nodded slightly, Russia sighed, and they leaned forward until their lips were touching.

"That's not so bad, is it?" France soothed. "Close your eyes." They did so. "Now, there will be no biting, or tongue fighting, or anything of the sort. You are going to gently caress your tongues together."

The angle of their heads changed slightly as they parted their lips for each other. England licked his dry lips, wondering why the hell something as simple as a kiss could be turning him on. His eyes dropped to the laps of the kissing duo, and... yes. America was turned on as well.

"Maybe we should change spots," France mused, smoothing a hand along the bedspread he was sitting on. "Beds are easier for making love than a couple chairs."

"That didn't stop you that one time," England said.

The two couples (or whatever) changed places. France was enjoying the tame yet strangely erotic show as well—it was pretty obvious when his robe fell open as he sat back down. They instructed Russia and America to pick up where they left off, and they scooted together on the bed and started kissing again. As France directed, Russia (gently) pushed America down toward the pillows, following him down, not breaking the kiss.

"Excellent," France said in a husky voice. "You're doing great. Take each other's shirts off. Nicely. No yanking or ripping."

They paused in their kissing to deal with that. By some miracle, all buttons remained intact as the shirts were removed and tossed aside. England's fingers twitched with a deep-seated urge to pick up after America.

"Ah... perfect." France was practically purring. "Yes, just like that. There is no need to keep the kissing centered solely on the lips. You have necks and chests and nipples and..." His hand fell to his bared lap.

"You're sure enjoying this," America said with a chuckle from beneath Russia. "We aren't even doing anything yet!"

"You're enjoying it, too~" Russia said, smirk audible.

"Well I'm the one being kissed. It's... nice."

"Hmm..."

"Come on, do what he said, com-"

"No insults," England muttered.

"Oh, right. Sorry!"

Russia moved his mouth, trailing kisses down America's jaw, down his throat. He eyed one of America's nipples with an almost hungry look, and England had an idea he was really wanting to bite it. But Russia played by the rules and gently sucked on it instead, earning a soft gasp from the man beneath him.

"Yes..." France said. "Oh my, yes." Both his and England's eyes fell on Russia's butt, hovering in the air as he knelt over America, and they both had the same idea at once. "Pants off."

"Already?" America said. "You don't believe in foreplay, do you."

"Since when did _you_ believe in foreplay?" England sniffed.

"You can do foreplay while naked," France said with a shrug. "Pants off. No wait!" He stood, not bothering to close his robe. "I'll help!"

"That is not necessary..." Russia tried to scoot away from the French invasion, but when France decided to strip something, it was hard to stop him. He wiggled the pants down, underwear and all, revealing the nicely rounded Russian ass for England to sit back and enjoy the sight of.

Then France reached for the waistband of America's pants, and Russia slapped his hand away. "Yow! What was that for?"

"You're done here." Russia gripped America's pants himself, and slid them down.

"Oh-ho. So that's how it is." Grinning in spite of his loss, France returned to his seat to watch the now-naked duo.

"It is like nothing."

"What now, sensei?" America asked.

And with France directing them, America and Russia continued their foreplay, kissing and licking each other, gently rubbing their cocks together (which everyone in the room seemed to enjoy), and England and France felt themselves (and each other) up as they watched the show.

"Who's going to top?" France asked. "Lube's on the nightstand."

Predictably, two hands shot out to grab the tube, and two sets of lust-filled eyes narrowed.

"Wait wait!" France said. "Do not lose the moment! _Russie_ , you're physically on top right now, so you can be top this time."

"That's not fair!" America said. "You told him to make out on top of me."

"Well you just look so hot on your back. Next time you can switch."

"Next time?" more than one voice said.

"Don't lose the moment! Keep going. Get the lube, man!"

Russia triumphantly snatched the tube up, smirking at America's pouty expression.

"Don't whine, lad," England said. "Won't it be nice to be shagged without being all torn up?"

"I guess..."

Russia proceeded to stretch America with his lubricated fingers. France's instructions were becoming erratic, his voice occasionally cracking like puberty was in effect again.

"What?" Russia looked up, expression confused. " _Another_ finger? Am I stretching him or fisting him?"

"Ah..." France chuckled. "Sorry, I got carried away. No, no, you're good." America visibly sighed in relief.

"Just shut up," England said with a small groan. "Russia, put your dick in him already."

"Slowly and carefully," France added.

"Why does everything have to be so slow and careful?" Russia mused as he positioned himself.

"This has been a little less painful," America said. "It's not bad! Weird, but..."

Russia finally slid into America. Russia and France moaned, England whimpered and stroked himself some more, and America cried out.

"Lovely," France gasped. "Oh, _très magnifique_."

Russia set up a slow pace to start with, though it was obvious he wanted to just pound into the willing body he had at his mercy. But France corrected him whenever things got too rough for his taste.

England watched them make love, watched Russia increase his speed, watched America writhe and moan. He increased his own speed, pumping his hips into his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw France doing the same.

America was as loud as ever, panting and groaning and making other incredibly sexy sounds, rather than the curses he usually directed at his hated lover. Now that he had found a steady but not punishing rhythm, Russia didn't need direction anymore, leaving France free to make his own pleased sounds as he stroked himself.

It was strange. Just the other day, England had watched them throw each other around the room, having the most violent sex he had ever seen, and had thought nothing could be hotter. Yet there he was, watching Russia's ass bob up and down as he thrust into America in what was just plain old vanilla sex. And it was so hot...

America was the first to come. In keeping with the spirit of the occasion, in what must have been a burst of inspiration, he cried out Russia's name rather than loudly screaming. For some reason, that was enough to push England over the edge, and he orgasmed as well with a low moan, trembling. France was soon to follow, and Russia finished last (he had probably won some personal contest in his mind).

The quartet flopped back, boneless, worn out, and sated.

It was some minutes before anyone spoke. "Well..." France said. "Congratulations. You were able to have normal sex!"

"Normal?" America said, sprawled on the bed beside Russia. "You think that was normal? I just had sex under the supervision and instruction of the closest things I have to parents. That was totally hot!"

England coughed, face reddening. "That is beside the point! You... he... Don't say things like that, America!"

America laughed. "Well, all right, it was certainly the most normal sex he and I have ever had. So..."

"You are ready for round two?" France said eagerly, probably remembering the multiple orgasms America had somehow managed before.

"Oh. Well, maybe. We'll see. I was just thinking of your guys' performance tomorrow..."

England grimaced. Damn. He had almost forgotten about that.

"Don't worry!" America continued on, much too cheery. "We'll give you some pointers before unleashing you on the world."

England sighed, tucking himself back into his pants. America better be up for a round two, if this was going to be worth it.

America was. And it was totally worth it.


End file.
